


On Lsel, Hope is a False Memory

by GlowsInTheDark



Category: A Memory Called Empire - Arkady Martine
Genre: Conversations in Bars, Emotions all over the place, Gen, Mahit Dzmare/Three Seagrass (mentioned briefly), No major character death other than the character who's already dead still being dead (sort of), POV Outsider, Post-Book, Three Seagrass is here in spirit, including in the endocrine system, minor character pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlowsInTheDark/pseuds/GlowsInTheDark
Summary: In Teixcalaan, these things are ceaseless: star-charts, disembarkments, and Shrja Torel's ridiculous, illogical, impossible-to-get-rid-of envy for her best friend's job and imago.(Mahit and Yskandr are very similar. Shrja is not.)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 47
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	On Lsel, Hope is a False Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribe/gifts).



> When you said you loved the imago-machines, the world-building, and the idea that Mahit and Yskandr are a good match, I got the idea to set free all of my messy feelings about what it might mean for someone to fail to match with a coveted imago, especially when confronted with as great a match as Mahit and Yskandr. Mahit's friend Shrja Torel was only mentioned twice, but her POV was the clear vehicle for that story. I hope you enjoy!

It was just as much a surprise  to Shrja as it was to everyone else on Lsel when Mahit sent that open-channel message. After barely more than two months away, and barring two more weeks of sublight travel, the new ambassador to Teixcalaan had just announced to the entire Station that she was nearly back on their doorstep. 

Shrja did some rough mental math: it depended on the time of year and the relative orbit, but the journey to the City from Lsel was, on average, a little over a month long. Six weeks to a month, so about thirteen weeks to get there and back. Mahit had been gone for thirteen weeks already—Shrja ignored the fact that she had been trying not to count. In two weeks, Mahit’s time away would total to fifteen weeks, meaning that she had been left with a paltry two weeks in the City itself. 

Just two weeks. Had the Teixcalaanlitzim been so dissatisfied with their new ambassador, Shrja wondered, that they’d sent her packing practically right away? But she had to discard that option immediately. Despite the recent strain in their relationship, she knew her best friend, and she knew how talented Mahit was. There was no possible way that anyone in the whole of the Jewel could have met her and thought that she was inadequate. No. Instead, with no better explanation available, Shrja’s morbid hindbrain told her that Mahit must be seriously ill and coming home to receive treatment, or even just coming home to die. She couldn’t imagine what circumstances would cause Mahit to abandon her post otherwise. 

Part of Shrja, the good and respectable part, was worried for one of her oldest friends. Another far more repulsive part of her was already thinking three steps ahead to when it would come time to pick a new ambassador. 

Alongside Mahit, Shrja had been training for years in cross-cultural diplomacy. She had been translating a constant stream of new Teixcalaanli media imports in her spare time, as a hobby, for distribution to thousands of Stationers. She had come in second only to Mahit on the Teixcalaanli language and literature examinations. “Superlative,” they had called it. None of that had mattered in competition with Mahit’s near-perfect imago-aptitudes, but now, it might. She wasn’t much good for anything else.

Two months had given Shrja the much-needed space to come to terms somewhat with losing out on the ambassadorship. With the news of Mahit’s premature return, all of that hard emotional work seemed to be unraveling right behind her eyes. Her stomach was already churning with the gravity-defying thrill of a dirty fantasy. If Mahit was now indisposed for the ambassadorship, Shrja figured she would be near the top of the list of potential replacements. If Mahit were to die, maybe she would be a better match for Mahit’s imago than for Yskandr’s, since they were friends. 

She could still be ambassador. She still had a chance. She hated herself for even thinking it. 

That evening, Shrja made a visit to the sixth-tier plastifilm printer and set it to print the complete poetic works of Thirteen Penknife in the original Teixcalaanli. Much to the dismay of the expanding mob of people lining up behind her to use the printer, it took a full hour. 

“Don’t you already have most of these?” asked one young woman up near the front of the line, close enough to read the covers on Shrja’s growing stack of printed codex-books. Shrja recognized her from a general literature class they had taken together in school several years back. They had read a mixture of Teixcalaanli and Stationer works (and one oddball alien radio transmission). 

“Those are the abridged and annotated editions,” said Shrja, placing the last codex-book atop her stack and squatting in preparation to pick them all up. “These are the originals.”

Every day over the next two weeks, Shrja picked a volume at random and retranslated it into Stationer. It was the best distraction she could come up with. It didn’t hurt that Thirteen Penknife was such an immersive and relatable poet—angry, pointed, anticipatory, bitter. Line by line, Shrja did all she could to sublimate the worst of her own ugly emotions into the work. 

On the day Mahit was scheduled to dock, Shrja put down the codex-books. She stared at the wall of her quarters. Starting in the afternoon, as soon as it was socially acceptable, she went up to the ninth tier and planted herself in a countertop seat at her and Mahit’s favorite bar. She had brought the last untranslated codex-book with her, thinking at first that she might work on it a bit, but instead, she placed it unopened on the seat beside her to reserve it. She was thinking ahead. 

Shrja set herself to the far less studious task of nursing exactly one odorless drink per hour. She’d had the idea that it might do some good for loosening her up, flushing out the residual jealousy. She wanted that jealousy out of her system by whatever means necessary. She didn’t  _ want _ to want to be ambassador. She wanted to be friends with Mahit again, even if she would have to fool her own endocrine system to do it. 

She kept an eye on the public news reports scrolling down the back wall of the bar, trying to pinpoint Mahit’s whereabouts so that she knew when or where to expect her, but they were strangely silent on the topic of Mahit’s return. Shrja wondered if that meant bad news, good news, or just embarrassing-to-the-Council news. She wondered where Mahit being seriously sick would fall, for the Council and for her, personally. She took another measured sip of her drink. 

She had worked up the perfect, steady buzz by the time Mahit found her, by the time Mahit just stepped up behind her and put a glancing hand on her shoulder to signal her presence. As if they were still students, still longtime friends meeting up for a study break. “Shrja,” she said, and there was no surprise in her voice, but there was perhaps a hint of a nervous waver. “It’s good to see you.”

Shrja set her burnished metal cup down on the bar a little heavily and turned on her stool, prepared to greet the new ambassador for the first time since her appointment. Did she have to say something properly courteous? “Glad to see you’re not rotting away in Teixcalaanli jail,” she said, deciding that the Lsel definition of courtesy was rather wide, anyway. “Or Lsel jail, for that matter.”

“Not for lack of getting in trouble,” said Mahit, with a curve to her mouth that didn’t quite fit her face. “And it’s not too late for that to change.” 

As Mahit took her hand off Shrja’s shoulder and turned her attention to the codex-book that was saving the spot on the stool, Shrja took in as much as she could of Mahit. She didn’t look sick, that Shrja could tell. She was still outfitted in simple Lsel-style traveling gear, snug and gray and non-flammable, and looked incongruously older around the eyes. It wasn’t that she had wrinkles, but there was someone strange and older present in the way she carried her expression. 

Right now, that expression was wondering if she was welcome to sit down. Shrja moved the codex-book to the counter. “I was saving it for you, you dummy.” 

Gratefulness flitted across Mahit’s face.  _ That _ expression, Shrja recognized as her own, but as Mahit sat up on the stool next to her and leaned her elbows on the bar, Shrja found herself watching Mahit’s body language for more signs of Yskandr’s influence. This was her friend of more than a decade, smiling at her and sitting beside her just like they had in literature class, just like they had at this very bar more times than she could count, but were her eyes just a touch too steady? Her fingers too restless? 

Was that a real change in her after a few weeks (at most) of performing that life-changing role of ambassador, or was that Yskandr peeking through? 

Then again, there was really no difference between the two. Any proper Lsel citizen would understand that at the deepest level. Unfortunately, Shrja just wasn’t a very proper Lsel citizen, what with her overwhelming obsession with all things Teixcalaanli. She could have made up for that shortcoming with the ambassadorship, but that was out of her reach. 

_ There’s still hope _ , whispered a grotesque mental voice. Shrja didn’t have anyone’s imago but her own, but she wondered if this was what it would be like to have an incompatible imago. 

_ She looks healthy and she deserves the post _ , Shrja insisted. She was fighting to give the more decent voice what precedence she could.  _ And she’s my friend. Or she was. _

Mahit looked like she was gathering up the words to speak.

“I’m sorry,” Shrja said abruptly, out loud, unable to look at Mahit another second without saying something about the broken thread between them. “It was all so fast. Barely two weeks. I wanted to reach out but I just couldn’t, and then you were already gone.”

Mahit let out her breath and gave her head a slow shake. “You shouldn’t be sorry,” she said. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have been the one to reach out, but I didn’t, and then I got to the City and I thought of sending you a message, but I figured that might sting even more.”

She was right. 

“I’m trying very, very hard,” Shrja admitted, “to be over it.” She knew she didn’t have to tell Mahit how badly she was failing, how badly she had wanted what Mahit had gotten. 

“If it helps,” said Mahit, shifting her weight in her seat, hiding a sour smile, “the average lifespan for an ambassador is shaping up to be quite low. Yskandr was assassinated. I was barely in place as ambassador for a week and I was nearly killed multiple times. I was a  _ very _ popular target for sabotage.”

“Of course you were,” Shrja sighed. She wondered if  _ barely in place for a week _ meant that Mahit had, in fact, been relieved of her post. “You know it’s still hard not to think about how I might have been able to handle things differently.” 

Proof of danger didn’t change the tug in her gut whenever she looked at Mahit’s face, whenever she stared right through and imagined she could see past to the imago-machine nestled under the base of her skull. Mahit was the sort to get in trouble, and it was infuriating that Yskandr, the exact same sort, had been the one to jumpstart the imago-line. It was hard not to think about how the first ambassador should have been someone more like Shrja. 

Mahit nodded, holding her face steady like something in it would spill over, but kept on. “Before you get too excited, you should know that certain elements on the Council weren’t going to let any ambassador succeed. Like I said. Sabotage.”

“Maybe I would have done better anyway,” said Shrja, propping up her chin in the palm of her hand. She flashed a short, toothy smile at Mahit, and after a second, Mahit rolled her eyes and smiled back. 

“Here I am trying to tell you forbidden official secrets—”

“Ah, so this is a scheme to get me assassinated before  _ I _ can assassinate  _ you _ and take your place—”

Mahit reached out and shoved Shrja in the shoulder. The smile was still on her face but now it was tinged with a more serious echo, like there was an ache reverberating just under her skin. “We shouldn’t joke about that,” she said. “It could actually happen. You should know, Yskandr’s lover conspired to let him choke to death, for political reasons.”

“Oh,” said Shrja, and she tried to get her own smile to fade, but it was still darkly, shockingly funny. And Mahit was still smiling despite the shadow that had fallen over her eyes. How ridiculously Teixcalaanli a death! It could easily have been taken verbatim from the plot of an early epic poem, perhaps from one of One Skyhook’s revenge cycles. It wouldn’t have been funny if not for their shared study of Teixcalaan—it was practically a parody of the courtly murder trope. Meanwhile, Lsel society was too wrapped up in maintaining stability in its comparatively scant populace to find humor in even the most cliched of murders. 

By Lsel standards, Shrja mused, they were both a bit unbalanced.

“It’s all right,” said Mahit from the corner of her mouth, trying to keep her grin at a respectable size. “It was painful and tragic, but it’s past.”

Shrja’s drink was halfway to her mouth when the meaning of Mahit’s words filtered through. Painful? As if Mahit had  _ felt _ the pain? “I thought Yskandr’s imago was out of date,” she said, holding her cup a few inches from her lips, suspended.

Mahit nodded her head, paused, and then shook it. “I have the older Yskandr’s imago now. I got an unlicensed Teixcalaanli neurosurgeon to implant it.” 

Months ago, Shrja imagined, Mahit would have indulged in a nervous gesture, would have run her thumb over the scar at the back of her neck. Shrja knew that gesture. But of course, Mahit had been trained out of it. 

“You mean to tell me,” Shrja began, curling and uncurling her fingers around the coolness of the metal cup, “that you were such a good match with Yskandr that even experimental backwater neurosurgery  _ worked _ ? And you got to receive the ambassador’s imago not just once, but  _ twice _ ?”

Mahit’s grimace spoke volumes. “Well, when you put it that way—”

Shrja slammed the cup down on the counter, louder than she meant to, and Mahit winced. There wasn’t enough liquid left in the cup to splash. “Just so you know, I’m not jealous,” Shrja said, mind whirling. “I’m angry.”

“Shrja,” said Mahit, “I’d understand if you were jealous.”

Shrja ignored her. She also ignored the voice in her head that was wondering where the first imago was now. Maybe she  _ was _ still jealous, but that wasn’t the point she wanted to make. “Installing an imago-machine is not easy, and you just cut up your brain on an alien planet and plopped one in, didn’t you?”

Mahit pinched the bridge of her nose. “It wasn’t exactly easy, but I’m fine now.” 

“You’re _ fine now _ ? You’re alive, I suppose. You’re still integrating, aren’t you? Maybe a bit belatedly, but it worked, so you think everything’s fine, isn’t it?” 

Mahit just nodded, and fixed a vague look of concern in Shrja’s direction. Maybe this was all old news to Mahit, but her lack of deeper concern over the potential long-term ramifications of crude surgery was going to give Shrja a hernia. Of all the dangerous, risky, irresponsible schemes to pull off.

Of course Mahit had managed to pull it off. 

It wasn’t Shrja’s fault that a lifetime of studying Teixcalaanli literature had instilled in her the idea that she could play any role she wanted so long as she had the right role model. From the historical figures in Pseudo-Thirteen River’s annals to the romantic leads of the fictional exploits of Thirty Ribbon, if she could recite the same poetry and conduct herself in accordance with the same noble patterns, then by Teixcalaanli logic, she should be able to be anyone.  _ Anyone _ . Yskandr included.

Her imago-aptitudes had been red for Yskandr all the way down. Lsel technology and Teixcalaanli literature had disagreed. 

“I’m angry at you for taking these risks,” said Shrja, thinking of all of the ways that Mahit could have ended up dead, her imago fried, the essence and memory of Mahit lost forever. Of all of the different ways that Shrja had imagined and hoped and dreaded that she might have been promoted, that one was the worst: no Yskandr, no Mahit, utterly alone in her own head. “And I’m angry,” Shrja went on, “at myself. For not being the kind of person who could.”

“Shrja—”

“Listen to me,” said Shrja. A vein in Mahit’s forehead was pulsing, a vein Shrja didn’t remember seeing before. Her lips were still parted, primed to interject, and Shrja was not going to let her. “Don’t you know how many stories Darj Tarats likes to tell about Yskandr? I knew what kind of man he was.”

Mahit’s mouth closed. Her eyes tightened around the corners. 

It was an unfamiliar look, and Shrja was made intimately aware that someone else was listening in. “I knew I wasn’t much like him,” she continued. “I knew, so I tried to fake it. I knew he was impulsive and dry and witty, and I wasn’t, so I practiced those skills.”

“You have a lovely sense of wit,” said Mahit, leaning forward on her stool. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I was trying to  _ practice _ at being  _ impulsive _ . That’s a contradiction in terms. Ask yourself honestly, am I the sort to take a politically precarious lover while on assignment in a foreign court? No, Mahit. I’m not.” Shrja leaned her head in her hand, elbow propped up on the bar. “But I bet you probably are, without even trying.”

Mahit’s lips lifted into the smallest of smiles.

Shrja gasped, more for the drama than out of any true surprise. “You did not!”

“I did not,” said Mahit. “Not exactly. But I can confirm that I’m the sort.”

“You’re such a good match. I knew it, and yet I didn’t truly know it until this very moment.” Shrja shook her head, feeling a heady, proud disbelief. “I don’t know why I’m still so jealous. I wish I could stop.”

The inevitable follow-up to that statement hung in the air around them like a vapor. 

“You wanted to be ambassador,” said Mahit, finally. “I understand that. That’s a serious reason.”

“I wanted  _ at least  _ to get some yellows on the aptitudes.”

Mahit laughed, at first a low and familiar sound, but then her laughter changed. It pitched a little higher, the breaths stretched a little longer, and her posture shifted. Shrja couldn’t even tell what the difference was, except that it was changed. Then Mahit’s smile started to take up too much space on her face. The age in her eyes began to take shape. Just like that, it became clear that the earlier traces of Yskandr had been just that: traces, particles, crumbs. This was the source. It wasn’t Mahit, just this moment, who was looking back at her. 

“How long have you been trying to stop being jealous?” asked Yskandr, using Mahit’s mouth and tongue and vocal chords. “All two months?”

“Longer, if I’m being honest.” Shrja’s breath quickened. She had never spoken to anyone so poorly integrated, and it was unnerving. “Since the literature exams.”

“Trying to stop being jealous is like trying to practice being impulsive,” said Yskandr. His accent was slightly flatter than Mahit’s, perhaps, but most of the change was in his expressions. “And part of being impulsive is taking the emotions as they come. And I'm absolutely flattered that you thought to imitate me, but you know I’m not one for suppressing my emotions.”

“I’m not trying to be you anymore,” said Shrja. “I’m trying to go back to being me.”

“But you’re still trying to be ambassador,” said Yskandr, eyes unmoving. Shrja matched his eye contact. 

“I know it’s not going to happen,” she said. 

“But you still feel like it might.”

“It’s hard to change course,” Shrja said, forcing a shrug. She felt anything but nonchalant, but somehow, it was easier to speak plainly to Yskandr, still practically a stranger, than directly to her old friend. “It’s hard not to know who I’m supposed to be now, if not an ambassador.”

Mahit’s hand plucked the codex-book of Thirteen Penknife from the countertop and gave it a quick skim. “Well, unlike me, you have a lot of options,” said Yskandr. “Since I’m outright dead.” 

Shrja laughed, but then after a moment she imagined that it was  _ Mahit _ saying that, and then she pictured Mahit saying that in twenty years through someone else’s face, and she had to stifle her shudder. This, perhaps, was why ambassadors to alien planets needed a sense of impulsivity. A higher tolerance for risk.

“Or, don’t listen to me,” said Yskandr. “I’m just a meddler.” 

Softly, Shrja said, “I want to talk to Mahit.” Yskandr didn’t argue—Mahit’s shoulders moved back and she straightened up in her seat. Shrja searched Mahit’s face for signs of discomfort, but all she could find was mild annoyance. She asked quietly, “How often does he do that? Take control?” 

“Less and less,” said Mahit. “But he’s not kidding when he says he’s a meddler. And he really does allow his emotions far too much free rein in my endocrine system.”

“ _ Please _ see a psychotherapist.” 

“That’s my next stop,” said Mahit, followed by a lengthy sigh.

“I’m honored to have been the first.” Shrja wished for another drink, a way to dull the razor-sharp tangle of friendship and rivalry and yes, jealousy, but even moreso, that sinking uncertainty about the future. 

“I’ll see you again later,” Mahit promised. “I’ll tell you more about the City. You know, it’s not like you can’t ever visit. I’m just taking a bit of a break, but I do plan to approve a lot of visas.”

Shrja wasn’t sure how she felt about visiting the City. She worried that she would be seeing false memories around every corner, things that could have been. She wasn’t sure she was ready yet. She certainly wasn’t ready to make any promises. But maybe, at least, she was on her way to getting there. 

**Author's Note:**

> I had a great time writing this story, so thank you so much for requesting this book and writing those prompts! 
> 
> Some miscellaneous notes, for your amusement:
> 
> Part of this came about because I was fascinated with Three Seagrass and her choice to self-model after Eleven Lathe, and I thought, what if those Teixcalaan nerds on Lsel find themselves trying to do the same thing, but it doesn't always work because so much of one's role is determined by imago aptitude?
> 
> There are so many parallels between Mahit and Yskandr. So many. *Of course* both of them would fall in love while at court. I feel like the both of them are a little reckless, a little short-sighted, excellent at improvisation but not always ahead of the game.
> 
> I think the Teixcalaan nerds on Lsel Station are basically a cross between Shakespeare nerds and anime fans, with just a splash of Classics nerds. I bet they have arguments about the true authorship of famous poems and whether subs or dubs are better for particular works of Teixcalaanli media. 
> 
> Lastly, I did the math and I'm pretty sure a Teixcalaanli month is six weeks, like the six points of a Teixcalaanli compass! How else could Mahit have been traveling from Lsel to the City for over a month, when the envoy waited for her on Lsel for five weeks and it took only three months total to get a new ambassador? When I said that Shrja did some rough mental math, that's after I did a lot of highly specific scribbling on paper to make sure it would work.


End file.
